


Is This Thing On?

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Trespasser, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Trespasser, Varlen tries to adjust to life as it returns to 'normal'. However, that proves to be more difficult than he imagined, and he finds himself growing increasingly uneasy. It doesn't help that a certain magister has yet to contact him either, leaving him wondering whether or not what they had was real, or merely a bit of fun to "pass the time".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are You "All Right"?

                "Thus far we have had no reports regarding the Qunari forces. It is safe to assume they have retreated - to nurse their wounds, most likely." Josephine's quill danced across the page, the flourishing marks poised as perfectly as the woman who conducted them. Those opal eyes glanced up, sweeping across the room to acknowledge all four occupants; a diplomat to the core. Yet, they lingered the least on the Inquisitor, retreating swiftly to the safety of parchment and candlelight like a mouse before a cat. As always, Varlen pretended to ignore it. Tried to trick himself into thinking it hadn’t happened. That it was all just in his head. It was getting harder.

                "In any case, we must be prepared. Clearly we underestimated them before; we cannot afford to make the same mistake twice." Cullen shifted his footing, resting his hands on the hilt of his blade, palm over palm - a habit of his. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, disrupted only by the scar that tugged gently at his upper lip. "We will have to be far more cautious with our recruits - lower our numbers, and check _anyone_ who seeks to join thoroughly."

                "Naturally," Leliana chimed in, free of the heavy mantle of the Divine for a few days so she could come to Skyhold and evaluate the Inquisition’s status, "that goes without saying. We cannot afford an oversight like that again - the nobles will not be content to simply back down _twice_. Months may have passed, but vigilance is our greatest defense."

                "Of course," Josephine agreed, now flipping wildly through her notes, brow furrowed in grim determination, "on that note, I have word from the Prince of Starkhaven regarding potential..."

                Varlen blinked tightly, the war table shifting in and out of focus, his advisors' voices muddled and watery as their words wandered lost through the air. He could see the dagger - it jutted out from the wooden surface, stark and cold against the map. He remembered the day he slammed it there as though it was yesterday, rather than months ago...

 _Tevinter_.

               The place of interest. The place most at risk from... well, _everything_ really. A sickening sensation built up in Varlen's mouth, and he swallowed quickly, thankful that the advisors were busy talking about... whatever it was they were talking about. He should care. He _wanted_ to care _._ But he just couldn't focus. It wasn't likely they would ask his opinion anywa--

                "… _Inquisitor_?"

                With an expression better suited to a mabari caught destroying a cushion, Varlen returned to the immediate, his cheeks growing a touch warmer as he felt all three sets of eyes upon him expectantly.

                "Uh… I... _agree_. Yeah… everything you all just said. _Good plan_." He bluffed nonchalantly, not really attempting to be convincing, but flashing them all his best 'charming smile' nonetheless. He felt it waver slightly - another recent development. He was met with silence, and a quick sidelong glance between Leliana and Cullen that Josephine was far too tactful to participate in.

                "I, ah..." Cullen reached up quickly, his hand going straight to the back of his neck. Nervous. Varlen made him uncomfortable. Of course he did – he kind of made everyone feel that way now, to varying degrees. "... I must have misspoken. I asked how you are feeling. You look unwell - _pale_."

                “Who me? I’m fine. I can't imagine where you'd get that idea," Varlen chuckled, trying to warm his fade-pierced gaze with light words, while remaining painfully aware that they were falling short, "I was just... distracted."

                "Oh?" Josephine asked, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of shifting topic. "May I ask what was on your mind?"

                "Well uh… You know Lake Calenhad?" Varlen began with dead seriousness, a barely visible smirk forming gently upon his lips. At their attentive nod of confirmation, he continued. "Well, Commander Cullen was right all along."

                The Commander perked up, his head tilting slightly as he fixed the Inquisitor with a confused yet pleased gaze. "I... _was_? About what?"

                "It _does_ kind of look like a bunny."

                The groan that resonated throughout the room was practically tangible, and Cullen brought a hand to his brow, poorly concealing his swiftly reddening cheeks.

                " _Maker's breath_ , you're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

                " _Never_." Varlen laughed, and the mood seemed to lift from its anxious, dim-lit gloom. The changes were subtle, but as a whole, they made all the difference in the world. Josephine stood a little straighter. Leliana's eyes shone a little brighter. Cullen smiled a little easier. _That_ was why Varlen was still there - to keep those high-strung people from working themselves to death, or collapsing from the stress of it all. It wasn't going to be easy. He certainly had his work cut out for him, what with the world at risk of falling to pieces. _Again_.

                "Be that as it may," Cullen continued, the remnants of a chuckle still dancing on his breath, "I… _We_ were wondering your opinion on moving forward? We were thinking of beginning our cuts with the foot soldiers. A lot of them have families they can return to, and I'm sure they would be willing to depart without any major complaint."

                "They have completed the duty for which they signed up, after all," Leliana continued, her expression unreadable as always, save for a subtle raising of her eyebrows, "of course, not all will wish to leave, but those that do seek only the opportunity."

                "But aren't they always free to go?" Varlen asked, genuinely surprised as his brow knotted. He didn't like the alternative Leliana was suggesting. Josephine started slightly, neck muscles tightening as she launched into her explanation with quill-jabbing fervour.

                "Oh, of course! No one is kept with the Inquisition against their will! But there are _other factors_ , Inquisitor. For example, the pay is sound, and their comrades also exert a great deal of... ah, _pressure_."

                "Indeed - whether they realise it or not." Cullen agreed, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin. "The ties between those bonded by the blade are not easily broken. It's akin to leaving one family in favour of another. It is never easy, or met with grand approval."

                "If we make a widespread offer, allowing unquestioned departure from our forces, it may just be the window of opportunity they have been waiting for. It would mean not having to make the decision alone - alleviate the burden of isolation." Josephine finished, and Cullen dipped his head in response.

                Varlen nodded slowly. It made sense. He supposed. "Do it then. But don't just offer it to the foot soldiers - offer it to _everyone_."

                "As you wish, Inquisitor." Leliana said with a curt nod. "For those who choose to remain, I will have my agents conduct a thorough check of their histories. Ensure we are _not_ compromised again."

                "Good idea. That would be the last thing we need right now." Varlen sighed, his mask slipping for a moment, before being quickly rebuilt into his usual smiling self. "So should we send out fliers? Throw them from the towers? I'm thinking something like _‘Attention Inquisition: You got even, now you can get lost!’_ Thoughts? I’m open to suggestions."

                "I… see what you are saying. I _think_." Josephine said after an extended pause, during which Varlen's words were processed by his advisors to varying degrees of success. "We _will_ have to word our offer carefully. We cannot appear dismissive or ungrateful for their service. If you like, I...  well, took the liberty of penning a draft a few days ago. At my leisure, of course - the possibility of this occurrence simply came to mind and I had _no_ intention of acting without--"

                "--Relax. It's _alright_ , Josie." Leliana laughed, and the sound was always disconcertingly sweet coming from a woman who Varlen was certain could kill him with a thimble and a shoelace.

                "Quite so - honestly I'd be more concerned if you _hadn't_  written a draft." Cullen added gently, his gaze tinged with warm fondness. The years free of lyrium had been kind to him, once the worst of the withdrawals had passed. Varlen shook his head, smiling as Josephine giggled in nervous response. She cleared her throat delicately.

                "Ah. Of course, well... _Good_. I have it here if you would like to review it, Inquisitor." She held out a piece of parchment, her smile reaching her eyes with a kind of selfless pride that only Josephine was capable of mustering. It warmed Varlen's chest - she always had a way of disarming him, and he couldn't put a finger on why. Maybe it was because she meant well, and if she _didn't_ , she'd at least have the courtesy to let you know a week in advance so you could both schedule a confrontation.

                "I’ll take you up on that." Varlen chuckled and reached out, but stopped suddenly as he saw Josephine’s tender gaze hitch like startled breath, concealed a moment too late. A grim sensation washed over him as he realised what he had done. The atmosphere of the room changed again, ever so slightly. Eyes tightening, smiles wavering, postures closing off. Unintentional, to be sure, but...

                "I... A _hh_ …" Varlen began, his voice breaking traitorously from a bizarre kind of nervousness as he cleared his throat and forced himself to acknowledge his left arm. The remnant of the limb was jarring and _wrong_ as it pointed almost insultingly at Josephine, reaching out with a hand that was not there for a piece of paper that had flinched back on reflex. He had... _forgotten_. Somehow. How could he possibly forget? The elven man tried, but he couldn't locate the words to make it better. He saw Josephine's mind whirring, also attempting to find a way to mend the situation. In the end, a single word simply left his mouth without supervision, born from the pure desire to fill the yawning silence.

                "Sorry."

                "Oh? N-No, it's quite all right! I was just..." Josephine responded with the frazzled rapidity of a startled nug, her desire to overcome the awkwardness only adding to it. Eventually, she gave up and let out a defeated sigh, her failure to navigate the situation echoing throughout her entire frame. "Inquisitor, you... Have _nothing_ to apologise for. Truly, I cannot even _begin_ to imagine--"

                "-- _Please_ , Josephine, before you pass out. It's _fine_. I’m not dying and it doesn't hurt anymore - that's what counts." _Right?_ Varlen smiled as kindly as he could, despite the sick feeling churning in his gut. "Now, let's try again, shall we? I promise I’ll get it _right_ this time."

                He reached out - right hand, intact and whole, clad handsomely in a royal blue glove. Unoffensive. Josephine relaxed slightly with a tremor of faint laughter at his terrible joke, but still held onto silken threads of restraint as she passed him the parchment. He wished he could just say it; say they didn't need to treat him like some fragile creature, on the verge of falling to pieces. That he was still _him_ , for all his many flaws and few virtues. Just sans a crackling, murderous hand that could knit together the fabric of the world. _No big deal._

                She released the paper as soon as it was in his grip, trying to hide behind a charming smile as she retreated back to her original position with just a touch more swiftness than necessary. That was how everyone was nowadays - flighty, skittish, and uncomfortable in his presence as they purposely tried to maintain eye-contact. To ensure they did not look at it. He wished they'd stop. That they could just go back to how they were before, troubles and grievances be damned. It was almost infuriating - it's not like he was broken.

 _Damn it - he_ _wasn't broken_. 


	2. Anyone Home?

                Varlen's feet dragged as he shoved open the door to his quarters, his movements sluggish, weighed down by the world and all its fractures. A sigh escaped from his throat, crawling from some place deep within his chest. He felt... _heavy_. All the time. Which was ironic, considering he had shed some rather obvious weight recently.

                He paused, his unnaturally green eyes floating slowly down to his left side - to the stub of an arm that was once so proficient at flinging blades. At parlour tricks and sleight of hand. Climbing, catching, hitting… _holding_. The works. It had been a _good hand._ Now everything was strange; he'd go to grab something, and completely miss his mark, the absent limb clinging to his mind, refusing to take its leave like an unwanted dinner guest. A phantom frozen against his skin. He _hated_ it.

                Honestly, he thought more people would have offered to 'lend him a hand', or something equally obnoxious. But thus far, _nothing._ Not a single person. To him, that delivered a clearer message than words ever could. Damn it, he wished _someone_ would just joke about it! After all, this was _him_ now, and there was no escaping it. He'd rather they laugh with him than treat him with the wary avoidance he was becoming frighteningly used to. They eyed him off like a wounded animal, unsure of how to react when he made one of his little blunders. When reached out for something with the wrong hand, or made to sweep back his hair with absent fingers. Sometimes he wanted to cry out in frustration to the Creators – to _someone_ – but he did not know whose name to call anymore. If there was even anyone left to turn to, in this world or the next. He was so _confused._ As far as he was concerned, he only had himself, and a group of people who he knew meant well, but who’s every attempt to help only seemed to make it all hurt more.

                After the war meeting, he needed a break, and of course no one questioned him when he announced he would be retiring to his quarters even though the sun still burned high in the sky _._

                What happened to Cullen's sharp laughter, coupled with his sharper tongue as he all but ordered him to not be lazy? The bargaining tone he put on as he told him to _at least_ walk the battlements and speak to the guards on duty? What happened to Josephine suddenly sending him a ‘surprise message’, despite knowing full well that he was in a ruddy corner of the stable hiding from his responsibilities? Half the time she didn't even request his presence; it was just her fun little way of showing that _she knew_ he was shirking his duties, and that she disapproved.

                Strangely, Varlen found that of all people, he missed Cole. It felt odd to admit; he'd never been _overly_ close to the spirit of compassion, but...

                Well, it was a selfish reason, if he was to be completely honest. He'd lost count of how many times he had come _so close_ to losing it, only for someone to suddenly appear at his door. Bull, Sera, Dorian, Varric - it varied, but every time it just happened to be the _exact_ person he needed. Yet when asked, they could never explain exactly why they had shown up; they just did. Just _had the urge._ Varlen eventually worked out what was going on, but he let it slide, each time making a mental note to tell Cole to stop using his spirity charms to trick people into spending time with him.

                But he never did get to talk to Cole about that. It was probably because deep down he didn't really want to. A part of him had been afraid that if it weren’t for the spirit, no one would bother to spend time with him outside of official business. Well, it seemed his fears might have been right. For a split second, Varlen felt his eyes begin to sting, and he closed them tight. _Damn it, Cole… He could really use someone right about now._

                The Inquisitor shook his head sharply, pacing the room in a way both hasty and forced. Because that's what people do - pace when they are troubled. He had to get a grip. _He_ was the one making everyone uncomfortable; trying to act like what happened wasn’t a big deal. Maybe he should just admit it - that he had never felt more useless in his life. That he couldn't seem to deal with it – to come to terms with the fact that he now has a stump where a forearm once was. That the mark and any power it gave him was, for all intents and purposes,extinguished. That his own eyes - the ones everyone used to tell him were the _exact_ colour of his mother's – were now a tainted green, eerie and iridescent and _terrifying_ , staring back at him like a demon in the mirror. That sometimes his heart stuttered in his chest at the thought that _whatever_ was inside him might still be spreading, insidious and crawling beneath his skin. That it took him _half an hour_ to do up his _fucking_ _shirt_ that morning, only to realise he had missed a button and had to start all over -- and that the second time _it took_ _longer_.

                Varlen ceased his striding and glanced tiredly over to his bed. The comforter was a complete mess on one side, _his_ side, where he tossed and sweated and turned in the dark. The other side was immaculate. Empty. It smelled of linen and _nothing_. A part of him wanted to rumple it himself, the way it used to be because Dorian always overslept and had to rush out at the last second. The man barely had time to buckle up that ridiculous outfit of his before he would rocket out the door, late for one thing or another. _That mage. That bloody, egotistical, narcissistic..._

 _…_ Varlen stopped himself suddenly, coming to a complete physical halt as the _venom_ of his thoughts actually startled him. The words hissed in his head like snakes; coiled and spitting, striking out at anything that dared cross their path. _What was wrong with him?_ He had no right to be so bitter. He had told Dorian it was okay. That he _understood_ – he had to go. After what had happened with his father, how could he not?

               Well, that was another thing. _Why hadn't he told him about Halward straight away? Or that he was leaving for good?_ Why did he have to find out by accident from Varric? Had they really drifted so far apart in such a short amount of time?

              Maybe Varlen was deluding himself – after all, he was the Inquisitor; an elf who had somehow managed to become one of the most powerful people in Thedas. Yet around Dorian it suddenly felt like he was floundering. Before, he used to hold his own, bantering back and forth with the mage for hours before falling into bed together, his eyes heavy from wine, but his heart light and fluttering in his chest. Now, Varlen didn't even have two hands to hold him with. Dorian barely bothered to contact him _before_ he had been carved up like a Feastday turkey thanks to that damned mark. Now… well, all the more excuse for Dorian to distance himself, he supposed.

                _Stop it_. Varlen berated himself, taking a brief moment to acknowledge how foolish he was being. Well, he'd always been a bit impulsive, but _this_. It wasn't right. Maybe the mark had done more damage than he cared to admit. It had been so unstable towards the end...

                What if Solas hadn't helped him? What if he'd done something to make it _worse_ , just… less obviously so? He wouldn't put it past that slippery bastard. Deceit and treachery seemed to be his strong-suit, after all. Once he got his hands--- damn it, _hand_ – on him, he swore he'd tear Solas apart!

                Suddenly, a glow, pulsing and vibrant from within the drawer of his bedside table, broke his train of vitriolic thought. For a moment, Varlen began to question reality - feared it was some residual effect of the mark messing with his head. After all, it had clearly taken up residence in his eyes and refused to leave. It wouldn't be a huge stretch to assume it might affect his vision.

                With a shaky hand, he reached out, gripping the rounded handle on his bedside table. He wasn't sure what he was afraid of; it wasn't as though Corypheus was going to jump out or anything. Now that would be _something_.

                No. _That_ would be _stupid_. Corypheus was way too big to fit in a drawer.

                In one swift movement, Varlen wrenched it open, and in an instant he was filled with a potent mixture of anxiety and elation. An amulet – no, _the_ amulet – so small and delicate, was pulsing a brilliant blue. The blue of Dorian’seyes. _Naturally_. In the mage’s defence, it used to be the blue of Varlen’s eyes too but... well, some things cannot be helped.

                Varlen steeled himself; releasing a shaky breath in order to replace it with a steady one. Slowly, he touched the amulet – folding his fingers around its cool surface. It tingled, but not uncomfortably, and he focused, picturing the mage in his mind’s eye. Swallowing, he ventured.

                "... Dorian?"

                …

                … The crystal pulsed, but offered nothing.

 _What if it didn't work?_ What if Dorian was speaking but the magic had failed? Or the mark was somehow stopping it from working? Maybe it wasn't attuned correctly anymore? Damn it, he wanted to hear him; _needed_ to hear his so called ‘velvety voice’. Please, if _anyone_ was out there, just one damn word would suffice...

Blue light, clinical and benign, shone from between his fingers, breaching the gaps as though his palm contained a star. Varlen waited for seconds that felt like minutes that felt like hours.

                He resisted the urge to hurl it against the wall. He let his composure fall away, slumping forward as the air had abandoned his lungs in a rush. He hung his head over the glorified rock on a chord. That's all it was; a pretty stone on a useless string. What a fitting metaphor for their relationship.

_“… Varlen?”_

                A disembodied voice resonated up from within the Inquisitor’s closed fist, muffled but still startling him enough to make him jolt. He would have dropped it had he not been unknowingly clutching it so tight. Exhaustion forgotten, he raised the crystal to his mouth, his throat suddenly dry and aching.

                “Vhenan? Can you hear me?”

                “Ah, so we _are_ doing names, then? _Excellent_.  You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, amatus.”

                The way Dorian purred that epithet made Varlen’s stomach knot. He had _missed_ him, and he felt himself smile slightly despite everything. He could practically see the man’s self-satisfied smirk just from the tone of his voice.

                “About time you made contact. You know, I was about to send this thing to Varric to see if he could pawn off to the Carta for a couple of silver. Maybe reshape it into a collar for Cullen’s mabari.”

                “Ah, you _wound_ me!” Dorian barely contained the chuckle that lurked just beneath the surface of his words. “Now now, don't be bitter - I have been a _busy man_ , I’ll have you know.”

                “Huh, is it really that bad over there?” Varlen was conscious to keep the true extent of his concern for his lover under control, maintaining a careful air of nonchalance instead.

                “Well let’s just say it’s a miracle my back isn’t home to an armoury’s worth of tacky, over-priced daggers.” The mage scoffed sharply. “I suspect Maevaris _already_ has her work cut out for her. Keeping me alive is a full-time commitment. Poor sod – someone should really pay her more.”

                “Hey, she knew what she was signing up for. You always were a handful, even when you weren’t attempting to single-handedly overthrow the magisterium.” Varlen kicked off his boots with a grunt, flopping back onto his bed and dangling the crystal above his head, the string hooked over his index finger. It swayed gently; hypnotically.

                “Well a man’s got to have _ambition_ , you know – mine just happens to be reshaping society as we know it. Not that you’d understand what that is like, of course, lazy thing _you_ are.”

                “Who me? _No_ , not at all. I am just a simple elf, who dances naked in the woodlands and puts his smalls on one leg at a time.” Varlen smirked, transfixed by the amulet as it glowed inches from his eyes. Whenever Dorian spoke, it seemed to get a touch brighter. Or perhaps it was simply his imagination. It pulsed lightly in time with his chuckle.

                “Well, that’s certainly not how you take them _off_ – what a waste of _precious time_ that would be.” Dorian’s tone lowered almost conspiratorially, and Varlen raised his eyebrows at his directness.

                “My-my, Magister Pavus, how _risqué_ of you. I take it you are alone?”

                “Amatus, I am _never_ alone. But if you are asking whether or not I am teasing you in the middle of a Senate hearing, then the answer is _no._ I am in my quarters, although I'm reminded almost _incessantly_ that the walls have ears.” Dorian sighed, the sound seeming to hang in the air for a moment before dissipating. “You know, funny thing, this whole _magister_ business. I thought I’d be kept so busy that my mind would not have time to wander, yet… here I am. I’ve been thinking about this moment for weeks. It has been far too long.”

                “Well, you could have contacted me earlier you know. I’ve just been here at Skyhold listening to Josephine and Cullen bicker over whether or not the Great Hall needs to be redecorated.” Varlen hoped he didn’t sound accusatory, because in all honesty he wasn’t. He knew that his thoughts earlier had been born from a dark place, and they weren’t a true reflection of how he felt. He trusted Dorian; he _did_. He knew the man had his reasons, and that he was doing the best he could. Varlen could ask no more.

                “Oh _Maker forbid_! Remember that dreadful bear-skin throw the Commander was so fond of? When I first saw it in his office I thought it was one of Sera’s pranks!” Dorian sounded genuinely alarmed, and Varlen couldn’t help but laugh as he rolled onto his stomach, dropping the amulet on the bed next to his head.

                “You mean the one you ' _accidentally_ ' set on fire?”

                “Now now, magic can be _so_ unpredictable, remember? It’s a miracle the rest of his office escaped unscathed.”

                "Yes, that was the _official_ report."

                There was a pause after that, where the pair simply coexisted in a comfortable silence that spanned hundreds of miles. If Varlen listened closely enough, he could hear Dorian’s breathing, gentle and even, as though he were lying beside him on the bed like old times. He could almost fool himself if he closed his eyes...

                "... So how many people have offered to 'lend you a hand', hmm? I must know. You see, Varric and I have a bit of a bet going."

                The question was so sudden and hilariously jarring that Varlen couldn't help the bark of laughter that shook from his throat.

                "You're the first person tactless enough even suggest it, actually." He was smiling, but it was like a memory, lingering and not felt in its full capacity. Dorian made an astonished sound.

                " _What_? Not even _Sera_? After she forced us to listen to all her terrible lines in the tavern before we left the Winter Palace? Nearly drove poor Bull mad - he must have drunk enough to fell a dragon by the end of _that_ night."

                "Really? She had _lines_?"

                "Oh yes - a full repertoire, ranging from such classics as 'need a hand' and 'he's _all right'_ to 'oh, don't mind the Inquisitor - he's _'armless'_." Dorian's attempt at mimicking Sera's accent left Varlen in silent stitches, curling up on himself as tears pricked his eyes. Apparently his semi-audible gasps did not translate well over sending crystal, and Dorian's chuckled response was tinged with concern. "I _do hope_ that is laughter, amatus, or I am going to feel like a truly _wicked_ magister for making you cry from hundreds of miles away."

                "I-It is," Varlen managed to gasp, wiping his eyes with a moronic grin still stamped on his face, "ahhh, it's a shame she hasn't used them! Now I'm going to be dying of anticipation."

                "A shame indeed." His tone was warm, but there was something about his voice now that gave Varlen pause. But he did not have time to pursue the thought before Dorian was speaking again.

                "So, _how are things_?"

                Varlen frowned thoughtfully, casting his mind back over the past few months.

               "Well... we've mostly been just trying to settle the Inquisition back into Skyhold, but we've started making plans to reduce our numbers and make we are not compromised again. Leliana is here at the mome--"

               "—with _all due respect_ , amatus – _fuck_ the Inquisition."

               Varlen froze, mouth still hanging open as Dorian suddenly cut him off mid-sentence. _What?_ The mage’s tone was not harsh, but the words were definitely sharp around the edges.

              "... What?"

              "Ah... perhaps I phrased my initial question poorly," Dorian amended quickly, realising the bluntness of his remark had caught Varlen off-guard, "forgive me, it  has been a long day, and even _I_ occasionally blunder, as difficult as that is to believe. The question I _meant_ to ask was: how are things with _you_?"

              Varlen found himself swallowing a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, and for a split second he honestly considered telling Dorian everything. That he was miserable. That he felt like he couldn't do _anything_ anymore. That he had outlived his usefulness. That a large part of him wished he had died stopping the Qunari invasion rather than _this_. But, when he spoke, it was with a cheery tone, complete with a fake smile designed more to trick himself.

              "I'm fine, vhenan. Everything is good on my end."

              To Varlen's surprise, Dorian's response manifested itself in gentle laughter, soft and almost sad. Varlen frowned, perplexed. He was being strange.

              "Is something funny, Dorian?"

              "Oh _amatus_... and here I always thought it was your eyes that gave you away."

              “You’ve lost me. Again."

              "Well it turns out it's also your voice." Dorian's soft laugh faded, and was replaced instead with a seriousness that all but demanded the truth. "Varlen, you _know_ I adore you to tiny pieces, but Maker you are a _terrible_ liar. Now, be honest with me, yes? If I'm going to grace your lovely ears with all my problems, it is only polite that you reciprocate."

              Varlen shook his head in a mixture of amazement and resignation. "There's no fooling you, is there?"

              "Amatus, legend has it my birth was marked by one of the most magnificent political shit-storms in Tevinter history. In my homeland, being able to tell a person's intent is not a gift; it is a _necessity_. Maevaris has lied to me three times today, and we're on the _same side_."

              The laugh that rumbled from Varlen’s chest was anything but cheerful, despite his lover’s always colourful imagery. Dorian had enough to worry about without him dumping all his problems on his shoulders. They would talk about it one day, to be sure, but it didn’t have to be _now_.

              “The truth then - I am coping, Dorian. That’s what matters. It was never going to be easy.” Varlen replied simply, stretching out his half-arm and rotating it absently. “You know, the cooks forgot to cut my food for me the other day. _That_ was awkward. Have you ever tried to shove an _entire steak_ into your mouth without causing a fuss? _Not easy._ ”

              “I imagine it wouldn’t be.” Dorian laughed, apparently willing to let Varlen off with a pass for once. “Look, I understand; you don’t wish to discuss it. That is fine, but when you do, you know how to reach me.”

              “I know, vhenan.” Varlen wished he could hug the man, but had to content himself with simply drawing the cold amulet closer to his chin. Again, they simply spent a few moments in silence. Varlen wondered if Dorian was sprawled out on his bed too, his always pristine hair just slightly bedraggled after a long day of debating the pesky nuances of _basic morality_ with the Magisterium.

              “I’m afraid I am short on time, as it were. As much as it pains me, I must take my leave, amatus. But before I go… I have a request, if you would indulge me?” Dorian’s voice surprised Varlen; he almost sounded uncertain. If it had been anyone else, Varlen might have considered that possibility. But it was _Dorian_. He must have misheard.

              “Anything.” He replied, rolling onto his side and propping himself up with his elbow as he gave a glowing rock his undivided attention.

              “… Keep the sending crystal on you for the next week or so. _Please_.”

              Varlen frowned. No, he had actually heard right. Something was wrong.

              “Dorian, what is—?”

              “— _Nothing_ to warrant tearing across Thedas to reach me, amatus. Don’t worry.” The mage’s voice was light again; dismissive. “Things are just a tad bit… _tense_ at the moment. I’d like to know I would be able to reach you, should I have the need. It is simply a precaution – you do know how I _love_ those.”

              Varlen didn’t like it. He _hated_ it. Something was already about to go down, and it had only been a few short months since Dorian had returned home. But what could he say? _No?_ Of course he couldn’t.

             “All right, Dorian. Just… _be careful_. Don’t do anything stupid, and _don’t_ get yourself killed, got it?”

             “Is that an _order_? You do know that I no longer serve the Inquisition, yes?” Playful, as always. Varlen, true to form, played right along.

             “That may be so, Magister Pavus, but admit it; you’ve always struggled to say no to me.”

             “Ah, you got me! _My only weakness_.” A fond smile almost seemed to travel upon Dorian’s words, imbuing them with warmth that made Varlen’s chest flutter. With a few more hasty yet gentle words, they bid each other farewell, and Varlen couldn’t help but wonder what lay in store for them. He knew it would not be easy; it would be anything _but_. If Dorian was to survive this reformation of his, he would need all the help he could get, whether he realised he was receiving it or not…

             … Suddenly, Varlen swung himself out of bed, thrusting his feet impatiently into his boots as his eyes burned with a sudden new-found determination. Dorian was out there, exposed, facing down a hoard of dangerous magisters who wanted nothing more than to see him silenced. There was no time for Varlen to mope around feeling sorry for himself.

             He needed eyes, ears, words. _Leliana, Sera, and Josephine._

             He needed _friends_.

             The Inquisition needed a leader.

             It was time to get back to work.


End file.
